It was winter in Vancouver, dreary and cold, and my naturopathic doctor advised me to eat more soups.

I never liked Yemeni soup as a child, hated how turmeric stained my fingers yellow, scowled at the wilted cilantro, despised hilbe, a ground fenugreek paste that clouded the clear soup the way water fogged Arak, the Middle Eastern anise liquor. Hilbe emanated from your pores the following day, a tang Yemenis were often teased for. Whenever Yemeni soup was served at my grandmother’s house, I sulked, refused to eat it, and left to play outside.

Yemeni soup was one of the dishes my mother had learned from her mother after she got married. It was a recipe my grandmother had been taught by her aunt who raised her in Yemen, a recipe that made it through the desert and across the sea, surviving for decades, never written down.

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When my mother was a child, this soup constituted their weekly serving of meat. My grandmother gave the chicken wings to the girls so they could fly away, marry off, and the legs to the boys, so they could form the foundation of the house.

*

My mother and I met in Los Angeles for one week in November, where my sister and her family were living at the time. “I’m making Yemeni soup,” my mother said. “I even brought hawayij.”

I opened the brown paper bag and sniffed it, the blend of spices instantly transporting me into her kitchen.

This time I got to watch as she prepared the soup, scribbling the steps on the back of a used envelope. We stood side by side, mother and daughter, shoulders touching, gazing into the pot, waiting for the water to boil. She added chicken drumsticks and thighs and dished the excess fat out with a spoon. She dropped in a full onion, which would later disintegrate into translucent rings, and chunks of tomato, pepper, potatoes and carrots. She sliced garlic straight into the pot, and finally, threw in an entire bouquet of cilantro. While she poured hawayij into the soup, I stirred the yellow into the water with a wooden spoon.

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The aroma of Yemeni soup lingers in my kitchen for days after I cook it. I grew up trying to shake this smell off me. Now it lives in my house, a permanent stamp on my walls, a pungent greeting that welcomes my guests. When the hawayij my mother had given me in Los Angeles was finished I started making my own: grinding cardamom, cumin, turmeric, chilies and coriander in a mortar and pestle, the way my grandmother and great-grandmother had done before me. When I stand by my electric stove and pour hawayij into the pot, I’m a Jewish Yemeni woman making soup. I forget I live in a cold and strange city, ten timezones away from my family. I’m home.

*

One wintry Canadian night I’m stunned by an intense craving for my mother’s cake. I decide to call my mother for the recipe. I need to make it, this one time. I need to know how.

It’s been two years since I last made it to Israel, a year since my mother and I met in Los Angeles. So much has changed: Sean and I moved to Toronto so I could attend an MFA program in creative writing, and, after years of talking around the subject, we started trying for a baby. But Toronto is still not home, and this apartment in up-and-coming Parkdale still doesn’t feel like a proper place for a family. In respites between writing, I spend hours toiling away in the kitchen, filling it up with the smells of my childhood in an effort to make the place feel homier, to make me more motherly, the only way I know how.

None of my siblings have ever dared to try making this cake. I always assumed it was too difficult. But today I’m feeling courageous, confident in my skills. I call my mother with the admission that we’re more alike than I ever cared to admit. Cleaning gives me a peace of mind; a full fridge makes me feel rich; when I’m in the kitchen I don’t like interruption; I cook by intuition, rarely follow a recipe. If anyone can make this cake, I can.

My mother is already in bed but she’s delighted that I want to make the cake, eager to pass the recipe on. “Don’t get discouraged if it doesn’t work the first time,” she says. “It takes practice. Keep trying.”

Writing down the recipe takes a while. Some of the ingredients, like a cube of yeast commonly used in Israel, are unavailable in Canada, others come in different packages, different sizes. And when my mother calls for four cups of flour, she doesn’t mean universal-size cups. “You know the small glasses we have at home?”

“I think so.”

“Your father wouldn’t drink coffee in any other cup. You know the ones?”

My father passed away nearly three decades ago.

“What’s the secret?” I say. “For the recipe?”

She laughs. “No secret.”

I proudly tell her of my new invention, a vegan split-pea soup. She tells me she made a Chinese recipe from TV. “Chinese!” she repeats in awe. I recommend the salmon cakes I found on Oprah magazine. “I don’t like salomon,” she says, pronouncing it the way many Israelis do. We don’t agree on everything. I find her beef too well-done. I use less oil in my cooking; choose ingredients that are natural, organic. She sneers at my decision to use chicken broth in my Yemeni soup rather than a bouillon cube.

We’ve been talking for almost an hour. She hasn’t asked me about babies once, though I know she wants to.

Then I say, “Next time I’m in Israel I’m going to watch you make jichnoon.”

“It would be my pleasure.” I can hear her smile.

*

The smell of cake lurks in the kitchen at first, nothing but a hint, then it brims over: warm, sweet, wholesome, homey. I feel as though I’m bathing in its silky aroma. “Do you smell it?” I clutch Sean’s hand and whisper, afraid to disturb the moment. “I can’t believe it’s coming from my oven.”

Ayelet Tsabari was born in Israel to a large family of Yemeni descent. Her first book, The Best Place on Earth, won the Sami Rohr Prize for Jewish Literature and the Edward Lewis Wallant Award, and was long listed for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. She lives in Toronto.